SR Chronicles
by M H E Priest
Summary: This is a collection of stories of varying lengths that will generally be missing scenes or thoughts from Sweet Revenge. They are in no particular order. It's possible there will be pre-slash or slash, which I'll indicate at the top of the chapter/story. Latest story: The Scorpion Is Also a Wedge
1. In the Company of Death

**In the Company of Death**

_the night after Starsky's cardiac arrest..._

"Ken Hutchinson."

Hutch jerked awake from his light doze on one of the chairs in Dobey's command center, where he'd been forced to go after falling asleep and tumbling off the chair outside Starsky's room. He was alert almost instantly, and acutely aware of the throbbing pain in his left wrist. A second later, he became aware of someone in the dimly-lit room, and his hand obeyed the unconscious demand to grasp the butt of his holstered Python.

Quickly, Hutch assessed the figure and its potential for danger. Though the room was dimly lit, it was easy to discern the intruder was a handsome man, with longish black hair, hazel eyes, and skin the color of _cafe au lait_. Yet his features resembled no one ethnic group or race. The man was impeccably dressed: dark charcoal gray suit striped with thin lavender threads and cut expertly to his slim, athletic build, an open-necked, button-down collar shirt whose color matched the pinstripes, and a cravat of royal purple paisley with a matching kerchief folded to two points in the suit's breast pocket.

"Who the hell are you? You're not supposed to be in here." Hutch made sure his tone conveyed both authority and menace.

"My name doesn't matter. What does is that you and that partner of yours have denied me my due."

Hutch shuddered at the mellifluous, accent-less voice that had an undertone of enmity. Feeling increasingly threatened, he readied himself to bolt off the couch and tackle the mystery man—a better option than firing a .357 in a hospital. "Who do you think you are? You have no right to talk about my partner."

The man took a step toward Hutch. It was so fluid, Hutch thought the man was floating more than walking. He took a quick glance at his feet. He suppressed a gasp when he recognized the man's shoes; they were exactly like the expensive Italian shoes his father had worn when he was laid to rest just ten months ago.

Hutch jumped up, moved into the man's personal space aggressively, noted they were the same height as he drew his weapon halfway out of the holster. "Who the _hell_ are you?" he asked even though he knew the answer.

The man snickered. "What gave me away? The shoes? I thought wearing them would be a nice touch."

"Get out of here. _Now_," Hutch said through clenched teeth, which failed to conceal the tremor in his voice.

The man's lips curved in a black-hearted smile, showing teeth that incongruously gleamed white even in the room's dusk. "I'm here for what is due me. I've been denied long enough, Detective. For too long and for too many times, you both have cheated me out of my claim to both of you. Finding antidotes, thrusting one out of the way of bullets and steel rods and vehicles, and so much more." He paused, stood taller, now towering over Hutch, whose only reaction was widened eyes.

"Just hours ago, I _had_ him. He fought me, kicking, screaming, clawing, striking, but it wasn't enough. What was it the doctors said? 'Massive damage... A body can stand only just so much'? I _had_ him, until you came bursting through those doors like some single-minded white knight on a mission, sending him the power he needed to defeat me! _Again!_"

Hutch was petrified of the fury pouring off the man who was now perspiring and clenching his fists. He gulped in hopes he could speak. He took a breath and said calmly with a voice that crackled with fear but mostly with sheer stubbornness, "You can't have him. He's mine, and he stays with me."

The man howled, whirling 360 degrees and growing taller still but also wider. He stopped in front of Hutch, who couldn't hide his trembling any longer.

"Are you aware how much he will suffer?" The man spoke softly, cajolingly. "And suffer horribly for months? He will be troubled by his injuries for life. Is that what you want for him? The man you claim to be your partner, your friend, your _other half_?"

Hutch inhaled sharply then held that breath. _How does he know we feel that way?_ He exhaled when he realized that this "man" would know that about them. However, there was something he couldn't know, and Hutch planned on using that.

"You don't know that about Starsky. You don't know the future, except for one thing—everyone dies. And obviously, you don't even know when that will happen, at least not for us." Hutch wanted to show smugness; instead, he let his expression go neutral to hide his anxiety about how right the man probably was. _Massive damage._

The man's eyes narrowed and one eyebrow arched. "I will have him." His iron will came through loudly and clearly. "I will not leave until I have him."

Hutch, rocked to his core, reached out to his guiding star lying comatose in a bed just yards away. _For you, Starsk. As you would for me._ Then, rearing his head back to glare at the giant before him, he said, "Take me instead." No quaver or hesitancy, just the tranquility of love.

Two beats later, Hutch palmed and pressed his head, as if that would stop the most excruciating headache he'd ever had in his life. Though mystified how it could be, he was sure he heard Starsky exhorting him to stay. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath that wouldn't come.

=S&H=

Starsky swam in a blackness deeper than midnight, thicker than molasses, surfacing at unknown intervals to capture bits and pieces of what he thought might be happening around him but didn't understand and to experience hellish agony, before the blackness drew him back in.

He emerged from the viscous blackness once more, and everything, for a change, was so clear this time. That woman—beautiful beyond description, seductive in a non-sexual way—he had fought against so hard when she tried to pull him into a brilliant blue sun was back. Now she was a he. _My own Christine Jorgense__n, only the __other way around._ Looked different, sure, Godzilla-ish big, but the haughty, cavalier attitude was the same.

And Hutch was with him/her.

And he knew what _it_ was. He hadn't earlier, but he knew now.

Then it was black again, triggering desperation in him. He didn't know why, but he had to get to Hutch, protect him from that bastard. _Hutch! Tell me where you are!_

He realized he could still hear, even if he couldn't see any longer. Heard it say he was going to suffer horribly, for the rest of his life, ask Hutch if that was what he wanted for his other half. Heard Hutch challenge it about the future. Heard it say _I will have him_ as clear as day. Heard Hutch say _Take me instead._ His voice sounded like a perfect bell, deep and rich and sure.

Starsky shoved aside that gorgeous sound and shouted _No, take me!_ over and over until his inner voice was hoarse and choked with fierce tears.

He panicked when he realized he could no longer hear Hutch yet could feel his blistering headache. _You should be the one to stay, to live. Not me. Listen to me, Hutch. You stay, I go. That's the way it's gotta be. You hear me? Do what I say, dammit! If one us has to go, it should be me, babe. I'll gladly do that for you. __I __want—__**need **__to do this for you._

As if a light had switched on, Starsky became aware of new voices around him. Perplexed voices. He caught snatches of conversation...

Seizure? Trying to get up? Are those tears? Heart rate 140. Valium. Coma. Tie him down?

Starsky could feel Hutch slipping away. _Oh, no you don't, partner!_

He turned to face the man responsible for Hutch's imminent death. _You take __**me**__, you cruddy asshole, and you leave him __be__ for a hundred years, __so take a fuckin' holiday 'til then__._ No quaver or hesitancy, just the pure passion of love.

=S&H=

The man wailed in utter frustration, powerless once again to sever their bond. With a nod of his head, he reluctantly eradicated the lethal aneurysm he had created in Hutchinson's brain. He fled, defeated and empty-handed.

=S&H=

Hutch jolted awake, sweating heavily and disoriented. Blinking a few times to clear his blurry vision, he became aware of the remnants of a headache. Seconds after that, he remembered the dream.

_Nightmare, more like it._

Dream or nightmare, it had seemed so real. Starsky had been in it; he had heard him, felt his warm presence. Death had been there, in all his pompous, entitled glory.

_Starsky!_

Hutch practically catapulted out of the chair and raced down the hallway towards Starsky's room. Along the way, his memory of the nightmare faded as rapidly as his heartbeat and his legs pumped. By the time he arrived at the window, all that remained of the terror he'd dreamed was Starsky's demand that Death take him and not Hutch.

At first, he couldn't see Starsky; his bed was surrounded by doctors and nurses and orderlies, talking, doing things he didn't recognize.

Dread froze him. Eventually—seconds or minutes or eons later, he wasn't sure—he thawed and shoved the door open. Staying in the threshold, he asked in a quiet, hopeful voice, "Is he okay?"

Carolyn, the nurse closest to Hutch, must have heard him over the hubbub because she left Starsky and approached him. Placing a comforting hand on his tense arm, she said, "Yes, he's still with us."

"So what's going on?" he asked, not quite keeping the wobble out of his voice.

"A couple of minutes ago, he started thrashing around. At first, we thought it was a seizure, but it was unlike anyone has ever seen. It was too purposeful. It seemed to some of us as if he was trying to get out of bed. It resolved only a few seconds ago, without any Valium. As far as we can tell, he's back to where he was before this all started." She smiled when Hutch let himself relax under her reassuring touch.

"I can let you go to him, but only for a minute. We need to find out why this happened."

Hutch smiled his thanks. _Something tells me you __never will__._ "I'd appreciate that very much."

As soon as Starsky's primary nurse for the night finished drawing blood and applied a bandage, Carolyn shooed a couple of people away so Hutch could be at Starsky's left. He sat in the chair Carolyn had moved to the bedside. He took Starsky's hand in both of his, then leaned over the unmoving but living body and whispered, "We're still here, Starsk." Then he pressed Starsky's fingers to his forehead. The lingering headache vanished. Relief and gratitude took its place and grew until they filled his entire body. Shortly thereafter, he was sound asleep.

=S&H=

All of a sudden, that asshole was gone. Starsky was furious and distraught beyond quantification, thinking that the son of a bitch had taken Hutch instead. _You ain't gonna get __**me**__ now. You try, and I'll beat you so bad you'll wish you'd've taken yourself, you ugly shithead._

The dense blackness started to encroach again. He fought it, certain there was something he needed to know before he returned to oblivion. It slowed its progress, then stopped when Starsky felt something hurtling toward him.

_Hutch!_

He settled down, sure now that Hutch was still here with him. He hurt, massively so, yet he was content. He stopped fighting the blackness, at least in part, that he finally understood was a haven from the pain. The last thing he felt before yielding was his hand in Hutch's.

the end

August 2019


	2. By a Thread

**By a Thread**

Dobey was tempted to ask a haggard Hutchinson when he stepped out of Starsky's room post-arrest if Starsky had even twitched just a little. Then he noticed the bloody bandanna around Hutch's left wrist for the first time.

Unable to contain himself because of the intense stress eating away at him, Dobey bellowed, "Hutchinson! Go down to the emergency room this instant and get that wound taken care of! Right _now_, dammit!"

Hutch wasted no time getting in Dobey's face. "I'm not leaving him, and that's final."

Considerably more calmly, Dobey said, "Look, Hutch, I understand how you feel. But you have to take care of yourself so you be there for him when he really needs you. Right now, you can't do anything except get cleaned up and stitched up."

"Try and make me."

The defiance both riled and subdued Dobey. "Listen here, Hutchinson, this is an order. Get yourself looked after now or you'll go on report." It was more than a threat; it was a promise as well.

"You really think I give a _damn_ about that? Look, _Captain_, I _have_ to be here! I won't let him -" Hutch ran his right hand roughly over his face once, then revealed the agony he felt to his superior and friend.

Huggy Bear, who had appeared out of nowhere, tapped Dobey on his shoulder. "Captain, if I may, I think I have a solution. Starsky's doc seems like an accommodatin' kinda dude. Maybe he'll tend to Hutch right here. Can't be all that difficult to get what he needs."

Dobey hesitated briefly before nodding his head. "Guess it won't hurt to ask. Thanks for the idea, Huggy. Hutch, if the doctor agrees, will you at least let him treat you here?"

Hutch looked through the window at Starsky, so pale and still, so dead less than an hour ago. "Yeah, okay."

=S&H=

His wound ready for suturing and hurting like hell, Hutch sat in the omnipresent chair outside Starsky's room with his left arm flung on an over-bed table. He hated having—_**not**__ turning_, he told himself—his back to his friend, but for the few minutes this would take, he'd tolerate it.

Dr. Bachmann sat in a rolling chair that had been brought up from the ER. "All right then, Detective, ready?"

Hutch nodded sluggishly.

"Fine. First step is to get you numbed up."

Having his laceration anesthetized seemed inappropriate, even silly. Any pain he might feel was insignificant to what Starsky was feeling, and would feel for months. With a bite in his tone, Hutch said, "Just get on with it." _You didn't do that for Starsky, so you won't do it for me._

Bachmann, momentarily bewildered, quickly recovered and said amiably, "Okay, you're the boss."

Hutch watched the procedure with detachment, from the opening of the suture kit to the opening of the small packet containing the curved needle and thread. The thread, Hutch observed, was easily a yard long—more than enough to close the wound. _How many yards did they use on Starsky?_

Bachmann took a deep breath and said, "This will take about six stitches, Detective. Now, please hold very still so I don't make matters worse."

_Worse? How could __**anything**__ be worse than what happened to Starsky?_ "I won't budge a millimeter."

"All right then"—Hutch was getting really annoyed at the doctor's use of that phrase—"let's get you put back together."

Hutch shivered involuntarily as he finally acknowledged consciously that he was deconstructing. _You're gonna need a helluva lot more thread than that to hold me together._

the end

August 2019


	3. Split-Second Decision

**Split-Second Decision**

Hears the screech of metal on metal. Sees the gun jutting out the car window. Hears Hutch shout, "Starsky! Get down!"

Hears urgency tinged with fear in the command.

Identifies threat, Army training and experience kicks in like an angry mule. Instantly calculates the probable trajectory of the small yet deadly lead missiles he knows are meant for him and Hutch. Defines his possible plays.

_I drop, head shot, I'm dead, Hutch's chances near zero. I stand, move, fire back, I have tiny chance and Hutch's chances much better._

_Easy. No contest. Stand. Safe Hutch. Live Hutch._

_Live, Hutch._

Hears his own strangled cry of pain. Hears the thunder of Hutch's Colt, again and again and...

Nothing.

Then feels much-loved and strong hands move him. Forces his eyes open to slits. Sees Hutch unharmed—only thing that matters. Tries to smile his elation but can't. Tries to make his left hand sign _I love you_ but can't. Sends Hutch a message from his soul: _Hey,__ l__ive for me __'__n__'__ thee, __'kay, Hutch?_

Senses a gray film begin to wrap itself around him and tighten, knows it'll turn black soon. Last thing he hears is Hutch saying, his resonant voice bleeding love that fills his entire being, "Starsk, stay with me. Hang in there for us, okay, babe?"

Assured his message was received and understood, surrenders to the black that takes him away from the escalating, all-consuming, multi-faceted agony.

the end

August 2019


	4. Hear Me

**Hear Me**

"...you believe it, Starsky?"

_Hey, that's Hutch. He's here. And hearin' real words, not mumbo-jumbo. And sentences. Must be getting better._

"James Marshall Gunther is behind the attempts on our lives, I just _know_ it. I can feel it my bones."

_Gunther? That tycoon? So oily nothing but money sticks to him. Why'd he want me and Hutch dead? Attempts? More than one? Hey, almost thinking in complete sentences. Definitely gettin' better. Brain ain't scrambled eggs no more._

A silence stretched so long that Starsky thought Hutch had left. Or he had blinked out for some time.

_Stay awake, Davey. Gotta help Hutch solve this. Do my part._

Starsky sniffed the air. Shuddering in disgust at something rammed up one of his nostrils, he was relieved that it hadn't bothered his sense of smell, because he detected the uniqueness that was Hutch. He tried to speak, but his lips wouldn't cooperate. He tried to move, but his limbs didn't respond.

_Oh, fuck! Am I paralyzed? No, no, can't be._

He took a few purposeful breaths—something Hutch had taught him—and the panic meter going off in his body fell to near zero. Finally he started to recognize the influence of lots of drugs, of cavernous fatigue like no other, even worse than Bellamy's poison.

_Okay, just doped to the gills. Why so tired? Did I get shot? Is Hutch okay? Hutch, tell me you're okay!_

"I don't know what to do, Starsk. I'm pushing the odds."

_He sounds okay, thank God, just down. Now, where do we go from here?_

Suddenly, Starsky knew, as sure as he knew his name.

_Hey, Hutch, got an idea about how to nail this Gunther whippo. Maybe I can move my nose, get your attention. Noz, do your thing._

When the nose twitched on command, Starsky laughed but knew no one, including himself, could hear it.

_C'mon, Hutch, look at me. Can you hear me? People're always saying we talk without words. Prove 'em right, partner._

"I don't know what to do."

_I **d****o**, so shuddup and listen. Hear what I'm about to tell ya._

"I mean, what if? What if. Oh, man, what am I talkin' about?"

_Hell if I know. Hear me, buddy: McClellan and Clayburn. They **gotta** have ties to Gunther. We'd've found 'em if we'd kept looking._

"What am I talkin' about?"

_Hutch, get outta your damn head and pay attention to what I'm saying!_

He forced his eyes open, astounded at how much power it took to perform such a simple action. Everything was blurry and for a moment, he thought his vision would never clear. Then it did. And the first thing he saw was Hutch, and he knew he was going to be all right because Hutch was all right.

_My big, blond beauty! God, it's terrific to see you! Now stop with all the dancing and hugging with that nurse and listen to me! Dig deeper into **McClellan and Clayburn**!_

Starsky, abruptly drained of all energy, felt his brain shutting down, but in sleep this time. He was nearing oblivion when he felt a kiss on his forehead accompanied by an enthusiastic, "Mmmm-wha!" followed by Hutch whispering in his ear, "I heard you, babe. You are brilliant."

_'Bout time you realized it. Go get 'im, partner._

ooOOoo

At first, when Hutchinson had told him Starsky had given him a direction for the investigation, Dobey had harrumphed and said, "Do you take me for some kind of fool, Detective? I didn't just get off the pickle boat, you know. Starsky's been in a coma and was only awake for a minute or two, if that. And that nurse didn't hear him talk at all."

Neither was he surprised when at the press conference following Hutchinson's return from San Francisco with the suspect, Hutch had insisted his severely injured, hospitalized partner had played an integral part in the Gunther investigation.

Now in the quiet of his temporary office after the ravenous reporters, whose appetites for information remained unsated, had disbursed reluctantly and Hutch had run to Starsky's bedside, he had to admit that nothing was impossible when those two were involved.

the end

September 2019


	5. A Needle of Vampires

**A Needle of Vampires**

Hutch held open the door for the phlebotomist who was leaving Starsky's room.

"Thanks, Ken," the petite, sandy-haired woman said loud enough only for him to hear. "I don't know how you can tolerate him sometimes."

Hutch smiled sweetly and knowingly. "Years of practice, Corrine, and endless patience."

"He's all yours." She exited swiftly, careful with her box of blood samples and supplies.

"Hey, Hutch, you bein' nice to that, that… vampire? I bet her name is Lilith."

Hutch waltzed in, ready to scold Starsky for his less than pleasant behavior toward the inoffensive tech and, at the moment, him.

"Good morning to you, too, Starsky. Corrine's not a demon. And you know you should treat her and the others who draw your blood much better than you do. They could make their task more uncomfortable for you."

"Yeah, I guess so." Starsky started picking at the bandage strip over the latest venipuncture site. "Damn vampires and needles," he muttered. Then, thoughtfully, "Huh. A needle of vampires."

Hutch gently swatted Starsky's hand away from the bandage. "Leave it alone, Starsk."

Starsky pouted and huffed. "Jus' wanted to show you she made _two_ needle holes, like a vampire would leave."

Hutch looked at the ceiling and shook his head. "Starsky, she's not a vampire. There is no such thing as a vampire." He returned his gaze to his partner. "And what the hell is a 'needle of vampires'?"

"A whole bunch of vampires. Just made it up, like a coven of witches, and you know those exist first-hand. Anyway, I been thinkin' I'm one now."

"What, a _witch_?"

"No, Hutch, a _vampire_. With all the blood transfusions I've had, that's gotta make me an undead bloodsucker. And they won't let me outside, 'cause they must think I'll bust out in flames." Starsky, an expression of shame on his face, looked away from his partner. "I'll understand if you don't wanna be my friend anymore."

Hutch sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. "Starsky, that is ridiculous. That's not the way somebody becomes a vampire."

"So you _do_ believe there is such a thing as vampires!"

Hutch frowned at Starsky. "You know what I mean."

A somewhat deflated Starsky said, "Yeah, yeah, I do. But that don't mean I'm not a vampire."

This whole conversation was taking on a sense of unwanted _déjà vu_ for Hutch. "Starsky, can you see yourself in a mirror?"

"Yeah." The answer was wary.

"Corrine was wearing a cross necklace. I doubt she'd have it on if she were a bloodsucker. It didn't bother you, either."

"Yeah, makes sense. But maybe crosses don't bother Jewish vampires. Maybe it's Stars of David. Maybe she's a Jew, too."

Hutch was sorely tempted to shake some sense into his buddy. "Starsky, you are going off the deep end! Look, you've been cooped up in windowless rooms, drugged out of your gourd, undergone multiple surgeries, and more for months. Your imagination has gone… wild. Would it help convince you you're _not_ a vampire if I can get the docs to agree to let me take you outside for a little bit later today?"

"Maybe, just as long as you give me your word of honor to stay far enough away from me when, I mean _if_," Starsky said at the stern look Hutch shot him, "I go all Human Torch on ya so you won't get burned."

"That won't happen, but if my promise makes you agree to bask in the sun for a while, then you got it. Now, I gotta head for work."

"Will you be back for lunch?"

"Yeah. I'm not needed on the Gunther task force today, so I'll be here."

"Do me a favor?"

Hutch hesitated for a moment, then said, "If it's reasonable."

Starsky's face lit up. "Could ya bring me some garlic bread from Fat Lorenzo's? If I can eat that, then I'm pretty sure I'm not a bloodsucker."

Hutch crinkled his forehead. "You know you can't eat something like that yet. How about I bring a garlic clove you can wear?"

"That'll do, I suppose. And just a couple more things?"

"Okay, but hurry. I don't wanna be late, though I could use you for an excuse…"

"You're just fulla laughs, Hutch." Starsky opened the drawer in his bedside table and pulled out a paperback book. "Can you take this back to Huggy and tell him thanks then drop by my place to grab me another one?"

Hutch took the proffered volume, looking at the title. Suddenly, everything made sense. "For crying out loud, Starsky. _Dracula_? You've been reading _Dracula_?"

"Yeah. Great book."

"I suppose you want your copy of _'Salem's Lot_." Hutch hoped his frustration and sarcasm came through so that even a loopier-than-usual Starsky could catch it.

"You oughta be a detective, Hutch."

"Starsky!"

the end

November 2019


	6. Territorial Dispute

**Territorial Dispute**

The flight to San Francisco for Ken Hutchinson was the opposite of restful, even in first class. Though prisoner transport required first-class accommodations, getting there to pick up the prisoner usually called for coach. This deviation from protocol must have cost Dobey more than a few favors. Or maybe not. BCPD administration-even Chief Ryan-had been incredibly supportive from the moment Starsky had arrived at County General.

Now, the closer he got to his destination, the more his elation at the impending arrest of the man responsible for the hits on him and Starsky eroded and the more his trepidation kept gaining weight in his gut. He knew he would feel different if his partner was by his side. More confident, less fearful. More professional, less inimical. More together, less jigsawed.

Early in the flight, the passenger next to him had had the nerve to try to start a conversation, but Hutch had nipped that in the bud with a malignant glower and a flash of his Magnum. The little man, who had the window seat, spent the remainder of the journey scrunched against the bulkhead that Hutch feared he'd bust through. Not that he cared one damn bit.

Hutch closed his eyes, tensed, and fought back waves of nausea that came out of nowhere the instant the wheels touched down. He wondered if this was how the troops felt when the landing crafts dropped their gates at Normandy and Omaha beaches in 1944.

Hutch, adrenaline already darting through his bloodstream, was out of his seat the moment the stewardess announced they would be deplaning. He almost laughed when he heard the little man sigh loudly at his departure. Hutch was third off the plane. He wanted to run all the way to Gunther's estate to bleed off some of that hormone but resisted the powerful urge.

He entered the terminal and quickly spotted a uniformed cop holding a cardboard sign with his name on it. He strode up to him and said brusquely, "I'm Hutchinson. I have to confirm the seats for the trip back, then take me to your leader." He blew a short breath out his nose. _Sounding like Starsky now. God, I wish he was here. He deserves to cuff the bastard and kick his ass back to Bay City._

ooOOoo

Hutch followed the petite, auburn-haired policewoman-he didn't bother to read her nametag-to the SFPD liaison's office. The door was wood on the bottom half. The top half was frosted glass with the name _Cpt. Frank Bullitt_ stenciled on it.

_Oh, this is just great. A legend. Wonder if he expects me to bow and scrape and sing his praises._

The policewoman knocked on the door and waited to open it until she heard a gravelly "Come." She said, "Captain, this is Bay City Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson." She stepped aside but held the door open so he could enter.

Hutch nodded his thanks as he squeezed past. She looked up at him through her eyelashes and nodded back. A moment later, she closed the door without a sound.

Bullitt remained seated but held out his hand over the desk. "Hutchinson."

Hutch, a good judge of character, immediately sized up the liaison officer as a man of humility and quiet self-assurance who wouldn't take crap from anyone. He had respected Bullitt from afar for his accomplishments-as most detectives in the state did-for years and now he was beginning to like the apparently down-to-earth man.

Hutch crossed to the desk in short order-the room was about the same size as Dobey's-and shook the proffered hand. The handshake was firm and dry, just like the man. A quick glance to Bullitt's left revealed a cane hooked to the desk, evidence of the forever effects of an assassination attempt on him three years ago.

"Pleased to meet you, Captain."

Bullitt said without inflection, "Same here. May I see the warrant?"

Hutch smiled his satisfaction to himself. _Right down to business. I like that._ He removed the legal document, now a bit wrinkled and damp, from an inside pocket of his dark tan jacket. "Issued this morning." He handed it over, hoping his reluctance to part with the warrant that promised justice for Starsky and him didn't show.

Bullitt placed the warrant on his desk. He put on his reading glasses then picked up the paper, unfolding it carefully. It took him less than two minutes to read it. He carefully refolded it and handed it back to Hutch.

"Warrant looks sound. I know you want to serve it A-SAP, but first, I want you to meet one of the department's inspectors with an interest in this case and review protocols."

"Of course," replied Hutch, now curious who had an interest in Gunther and why.

"There are no registered guns in the mansion, but of course you know there may be illegal firearms on premises. Do you anticipate any problems making this arrest?"

"No, not really. But I am expecting he will resist." _God, I hope so._ "Nothing I can't handle."

Bullitt nodded his head. "From what I hear, I believe that. Your and your partner's reputations are well-known in this department. I'm sorry to hear about his injuries." He looked at Hutch's bandaged left wrist. "And yours?"

Hutch lifted one shoulder. "I was faster than the hatchet man was."

The intercom buzzed. Bullitt punched the lighted button. "Yes?"

"He's here, sir. Should I send him in?"

"Yes. Thank you." Bullitt, with the help of his cane in one hand and the other hand pressing down on the desk, rose to his feet. "Keep your head about you, Sergeant. This could -"

He stopped when the door to his office opened. Hutch turned halfway around and saw the tall man-even taller than himself-with a craggy face, wavy brown hair, and a lean body dressed in a sport coat and pants usually found in a discount men's store or a rack at Goodwill. Hutch knew who he was, had seen his picture in the papers more than once.

"What is it, Cap-" The man stopped himself and stared at Hutch. His face puckered with aggression as he swiftly approached Hutch.

Hutch had sensed danger before the man came at him and had backed up to Bullitt's desk. Heeding the captain's warning, he didn't reach for his weapon but curled his hand into a fist, ready to strike should the need arise.

"You're _dead_!" shouted the man.

Before Hutch knew it, Bullitt had laid his cane across the man's chest. It surprised him that it had stopped the man, whose heated scowl promised violence.

"Enough," Bullitt said in a tight, commanding whisper. "Stand down now."

It took several long seconds for the man to step away. Hutch, however, stayed primed to defend himself. He broke the tense atmosphere with, "Inspector Callahan, I'm Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson, Bay City PD." He didn't offer his hand, wanting to keep it free for something more forceful.

"Well, I'll be damned," Harry Callahan said through clenched teeth. "You look just like -"

"John Davis," Hutch finished for Callahan. "I know. I took a lot of grief about that for months at my precinct." _And Starsky was the worst of them all_, he remembered fondly, though at the time he had wanted to punch his partner's lights out more than once.

Bullitt returned his cane to his side. "Callahan, if you look closely, you'll see there are differences."

Callahan scrutinized Hutch so closely that he thought the SF detective had x-ray vision. "Yeah, I can see that now. Sorry, uh, Hutchison?"

"Hutch_in_son," Hutch corrected with a friendliness he didn't exactly feel.

Bullitt started back to his chair. "Now that that is out of the way, let's get down to the reason you two are here."

Alarmed, Hutch swung his gaze from Callahan to Bullitt. "Hey, wait just a damn minute, Captain," he snarled. "This is _my_ collar."

"What is this about, Captain?" demanded Callahan.

Bullitt's blue eyes drilled into Hutch silently, unequivocally making Hutch realize that Bullitt would brook no argument or misbehavior. Hutch made himself relax; that was obviously enough for Bullitt for he turned that same gaze to Callahan a couple seconds later. "Sergeant Hutchinson is here to serve an arrest warrant for James Marshall Gunther."

"No!" Callahan shouted. "Gunther is _mine_, Frank. I've been working on this case for months, and I can smell it, it's so close. _No_ one"-he shot a disgusted, threatening look at Hutch-"is gonna take him away from me."

Hutch returned the look with a venomous one of his own. "No one is gonna take this from me," he said quietly with a flatness that barely hid his animosity.

Bullitt slapped his hand on his desk, drawing Hutch and Callahan out of their intimidation contest. "I know that, Harry. That's why you're here. Regulations state that any non-SFPD officer serving a valid warrant in this jurisdiction must be accompanied by an SFPD officer of equal or higher rank. I've also chosen you because of your work on the Gunther case."

"So you think me seeing this, this… _Bay City_ sergeant arrest the money launderer I've been after for months will _appease_ me? Well, it won't, goddammit!"

"_Money laundering?_" Hutch was incredulous and fought to keep his index finger out of action. "Is that all you got? Couldn't hang a _homicide_ on him so you had to go with money laundering, huh? Well, homicide trumps your lousy financial crime every day of the week. I got him for multiple counts of conspiracy to commit the murder of two police officers, one who's been _my partner_ since '71, first in uniform then in plainclothes in Special Units. But you wouldn't know about _true_ partners, would you, Callahan. Yours never seem to last more than a few weeks or months, do they?"

Callahan's entire body tensed, ready to pounce, reminding Hutch of Starsky doing the same, except Starsky would've pounced already. "Why, you son of a bitch, you have -"

"Hutchinson! Callahan!" roared Bullitt. "Enough!"

Hutch dug deep down into his undercover skills to bring up a sufficiently chastised expression. "My apologies, sir. I hope you can understand that Detective Sergeant Starsky and I are very close and arresting the man responsible for his injuries is my highest priority." _Not coddling some detective whose feathers are ruffled._ Despite his statement, he didn't sense any decrease in Callahan's hostility-not that he cared.

Bullitt nodded. "I do understand, Hutchinson. Now, can you two be civil long enough to get this done?"

Somewhat reluctantly, Hutch nodded, saying, "I can and will, sir."

Callahan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure."

"Reassuring to know you two can be professional." He paused. "There is an unmarked car in the garage-spot 1G, Callahan-and there will be a squad escort. Tran and Collins. Code 1, no exceptions. Return here for the final paperwork and we'll have Hutchinson and his prisoner at the airport in time for their flight. Understood?"

The response was two head dips.

"Dismissed."

ooOOoo

On the trip to Gunther's mansion, Hutch focused his attention on the passing scenery; it made it easier to tolerate the arrogant Callahan's presence. It also made it easier to get lost in his thoughts-thoughts of how adrift and alone he was without Starsky. How it was wrong to serve this particular warrant without Starsky at his side. Sure, he'd served warrants alone, like when he arrested the man who'd put out the contract on Vic Monty.

But this was different. Starsky should be doing this one.

Hutch thought of Dobey's arrest of Stryker and the similarities there. _Thank God the similarities didn't include a dead partner._

He shook off his thoughts when he felt the car slow. He softly snorted at the fact that the elaborate gate stood open, offering no hindrance to their invasion of the estate.

Callahan scowled. "Must know we're coming."

"Ya think? Better look into a leak in your department." _And I'll keep pressing Dobey to look for moles in our department._

On the way up the winding driveway, both men took in the Italianate structure. Hutch thought it pretentious and reflective of Gunther's overblown sense of self-importance.

As Callahan turned off the engine, Hutch said, "You stay here."

"LIke hell I will, Mr. High-and-Mighty Detective! He or one of his thugs is probably waiting to take you out. You need me on this. Partners, Hutchison. Regulations. Or don't you care about those, either. If I can't have him, I want to at least see the take-down."

Hutch tried not to let Callahan's deliberate mispronunciation of his name get under his skin, or his probable implication he didn't care about Starsky, but it did. He took a calming breath, then said, "Fuck regulations. And don't tell me you've stuck to them 100% of the time. I'm doing this alone, Harry. For my partner."

"Right. Laid up in some hospital bed miles away because you couldn't protect him." There was no question that Callahan meant to maim Hutch with both his words and tone.

Hutch came very close to throttling the detective. Instead, he generated immense self-control and ended up staring bullets at Callahan. He couldn't believe Callahan's lack of collegial support, found it infuriating. In addition, Callahan had trounced all over the rawness Hutch still felt-and probably always would-for not protecting the most important person in his life.

Then Hutch swore he heard Starsky in his head say with vigor, "Go get 'im, partner!" That was followed quickly by a warm, energetic fullness in his chest that infused him with confidence and the knowledge he was _not_ alone.

_Starsk. Always there when I need you, huh, babe?_

"This is not your concern, Harry." Hutch unconsciously placed his right hand over his heart. "Stay the _fuck_ away from me. I already got a partner."

the end

February 2020


	7. The Look

**The Look**

It could've been a human statue sitting in front of Starsky's window. Dobey, emotionally weary, lumbered to Hutch's side and asked, "Any change?"

Keeping his eyes on his partner, Hutch replied, "Not since you asked fifteen minutes ago." There was an air of indifference to his tone that spoke volumes to Dobey of the turmoil that was brewing in him.

"Just got a call from Reception. Councilman Whitelaw would like to see you in the chapel." Dobey was pleased to see Hutch could still move, even though it was only a flinch.

"Peter Whitelaw?" Hutch asked, openly puzzled at this unexpected visitor. "Did he say why?"

"No, just that he wanted to see you." When it appeared that Hutch wasn't going to leave, Dobey continued, "Go hear him out. Maybe he has some information he'll only give to you. I'll stay with Starsky."

It took almost a minute before Hutch relented. "Fine. But call me if _anything_ happens."

Dobey sighed and shook his head as he watched one half of his best team slowly stand as if his entire body was in deep pain. _Yeah, well, when one hurts, so does the other. Often worse._

=S&H=

Hutch, operating on little sleep and fewer calories, opened the chapel door with more energy than he thought he had. Whitelaw, sitting in the last row of chairs, turned as he entered.

"Detective Hutchinson," he said before Hutch could speak, "thanks for coming." His eyes were drawn to the bloody, makeshift bandage on Hutch's wrist. "Are you okay?"

"It's nothing." _Compared to Starsky's wounds, it's less than nothing._ "What can I do for you?"

The brusqueness in Hutch's tone silenced Whitelaw momentarily. "I, uh, know this is a very rough time for you and want to offer you something that might help."

Hutch entered the row but remained standing several chairs away from Whitelaw. Not feeling generous or courteous toward anyone at the moment, he growled, "How the hell would you know?"

"Have you already forgotten that _I _lost the man I loved?"

Hutch felt a deserved wave of shame crash over him, yet it didn't drown the unrelenting hostility and futility that clung to his soul like leeches ever since this waking nightmare had begun. "Sorry. I didn't mean -"

Whitelaw held up a hand to stop Hutch. "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

They nodded at each other, accepting the offered apologies. More calmly but still with an edge, Hutch asked, "What could Starsky possibly mean to you? You don't know him. Or me."

Whitelaw smiled. It seemed genuine, the kind of smile when one remembers something or someone fondly. "I know him better than you think, Detective. John talked about him often, how Dave was family, how proud he was of him, how... frightened he was every time Dave was hurt. I've come to feel about him the same way to an extent."

"Why are you really here? It certainly isn't to discuss Starsky and John Blaine."

"You're right. I know you want to be with your partner, so I'll come right to the point." Whitelaw paused to take a breath, as if doing so gave him the courage to say what was coming next . "I came to tell you about a group of people—specifically, gay men whose partners have passed or been victims of violence—who could be there for you, if you want."

Hutch squeezed his eyes tightly. _Here we go again. People making assumptions. _He opened his eyes and purposefully bore his gaze into the councilman. "Why would gay men want to help _me_?" he asked crossly. "I'm not gay, and neither is my partner."

Whitelaw nodded. "Oh, it's obvious to me that the two of you are _not_ gay. But that's not really the point. You do remember that I've seen you together at John's service and wake?" At Hutch's nod, Whitelaw continued, "I can tell by the way you look at one another, your body language around each other, that you have a... _different_ kind of love for each other."

Hutch felt unwanted but insistent curiosity sneak in. "You care to explain this _different_ love?"

The councilman's brow knitted, his fingers stroked his moustache. Hutch wondered if this was how Whitelaw looked when he was considering how to vote on an issue.

Whitelaw cleared his throat, his brow relaxed, and his fingers now pointed at a chair near him. "Please, sit, Detective."

Hutch considered this for a few seconds, then sat in a chair three over from Whitelaw—far enough away that there would be no intentional or accidental touching. He was averse to touch from anyone other than Starsky, had been since the shooting. He barely tolerated Dobey or Huggy's touch and accepted it only because they had a need to physically connect with and comfort him.

"Okay, I'm listening."

Whitelaw waited several beats before resuming with, "When I was a teacher, I learned quickly how to read my students. Who was getting the material, who was struggling, that sort of thing. Then I noticed that I could read not just my students, but most people, and quite accurately, I believe." He exhaled noisily, as if he were frustrated with something or someone.

"When you and Dave questioned me," Whitelaw continued, "I saw his sorrow and sense of betrayal. _Your_ sorrow, I came to realize, was not only for the loss of John, but also for what Dave had lost. You projected significant empathy for him."

"Anyone except a sociopath could've figured that out."

"True, Detective, I'll give you that. It was rather evident. But there was something else." Again, Whitelaw paused, and Hutch found himself with burgeoning impatience. He held his tongue, however, out of respect for the office rather than the man who held it.

"During that interview, I sensed a strong connection between you and Dave. I thought it was a partner thing. You know, the bond that police and other people in high-risk professions develop for their colleagues. But when I saw you look at each other once the interview was over, I saw something that, that..." Whitelaw trailed off, looked away.

Hutch, patience now non-existent, prompted, "What 'something'?"

Whitelaw looked back at him. "Something that made me envious. I don't have a word for it. I doubt anyone does. I've seen that... _look_ that passed between you and Dave only once before, it's that rare—at least in my experience. What I see is profound trust, unconditional love, and singular caring, all given freely without expectation of anything in return, reserved for the most important person in the world. There's unsurpassed joy and serenity there, and awe." He fell silent again.

_How_, Hutch wondered, _could just a look say all that? _He knew it did, though, and it said even more—absolute acceptance of who you were and fierce, unwavering loyalty.

"I know you'd die for each other," Whitelaw continued, "but more importantly, you _live_ for each other. You are one soul. You and Dave are the personification of that quotation of Aristotle's -"

"'Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies,'" Hutch finished, a nostalgic tenderness unintentionally creeping into his words as he recalled Starsky reading that quote to him a few years ago.

"Ah, a student of the classics."

"Not exactly." _A student of Starsky. Much more interesting_—_and worthwhile._

"I saw the same look again at John's memorial service every time Dave glanced at you while he delivered the eulogy. And you sent him that look right back. I saw it when the two of you huddled together at the wake, unaware of anyone else but each other." Whitelaw's cheeks pinked. "How can I, or anyone else, _not_ be envious of that?"

It was Hutch's turn to look away. He wanted to speak but his vocal cords had seized up, along with his brain. It was incomprehensible that someone who didn't know him could put words—something he'd been unable to do—to how he and Starsky felt about each other.

"Oh, I've made you uncomfortable, Detective. That was certainly not my intention. I just got carried away. Please accept my apologies."

Hutch returned his gaze to the councilman, hardening it in an effort to hide the vulnerability he felt swarming through him. He wasn't about to forgive a virtual stranger for voicing something so terribly personal about him and Starsk, especially at a time when they both were barely hanging on by an unraveling thread.

"Wh-why are you telling m-me this?" Hutch rasped, ashamed that his stutter chose this moment to rear its humiliating head. "And wh-why is this any of your business?"

Whitelaw had the grace to look contrite. "I want you to know that you're welcome at that gay men's group, because I fear if you decide to talk about all that's going on to a group of straights, you wouldn't be accepted, much less supported. At least gay men understand that deep love is possible between two men." He leaned toward Hutch, who didn't flinch at this breach of his personal space. "The way I see it, it _is_ my business because I love John, and John loved Dave, so I love Dave and the person Dave loves above all others," he whispered earnestly, giving the words the intimacy of kinship.

Thoroughly rattled, the only thing Hutch could do was stare at Whitelaw and let the perceptive, well-meaning politician slip the business card for the Friends of Dorothy support group into a pocket of his jacket. If Whitelaw said anything else before he left the chapel, Hutch didn't hear it.

=S&H=

Hutch made his way to the nearest restroom. He went to the closest sink, doused his face with cold water. When he finally looked up, he didn't see his reflection in the mirror; he saw Starsky, stretched out on Hutch's sofa, snuggled under a striped blanket, his red-socked feet on Hutch's lap.

Starsky shivered, despite the wool gloves, the two long-sleeve shirts, his favorite belted cardigan, and snow pants. "Hey, Hutch, you think I'll ever get warm again?"

"Of course you will, dummy. Doc Franklin said you should recover fully. It'll just take a little more time. How about you get in your flannel pajamas? Maybe that'll help."

"I ain't no invalid. Only invalids wear PJs in the middle of the day."

"Starsk, you just got out of the hospital after being poisoned. You _are_ an invalid."

"Nope. Just temporarily… squishy."

Without warning, Starsky's entire body bunched up, transmitting the spasms through the couch they shared. "Oh, Jesus _Christ_!" Starsky swore, his voice strained, angry, and frustrated.

"Well, you're the opposite of squishy now! Just take some deep breaths, buddy. How about I get you a muscle relaxant?" Hutch started rubbing Starsky's legs.

"Naw, naw," Starsky replied after hissing like a cat cornered by a predator. "Can ride this out. Don' last like before." He hissed again. "'Sides, I hate how those pills make me all loopy and wacko."

"Glad you told me, 'cause I never noticed any difference."

"Smartass."

Soon, Starsky's muscles relaxed on their own, as he'd predicted. A few more minutes found his breathing back to normal. But then a hard shiver had him ramming his hands into the cardigan's pockets and hunching further beneath the blanket.

"Hey! I forgot about this." Despite his chill, one hand pushed the blanket to mid-chest, the other withdrew a folded piece of paper. "That really cute candy striper gave me this while you were bringin' the car around."

Hutch snickered. "Jailbait, Starsk. Throw her phone number away."

Starsky pulled a face and huffed as he waved the mimeographed paper at Hutch. "That sweet _kid_ said she writes quotes down on paper to give to patients. 'A remedy for boredom,' she called it."

"Nice of her. Read me one."

Starsky sighed, cleared his throat. "Okay, first one. 'The hope of a secure and livable world lies with disciplined nonconformists who are dedicated to justice, peace and brotherhood.' Kinda sounds like us, huh?" He held a hand out to Hutch, who took it and squeezed. Starsky squeezed back.

Hutch nodded and said, "Yeah, I suppose it does. Who said that?"

"Martin Luther King, Jr."

"Wise man. Still can't believe he's dead. At least his words live on."

"Ain't that the truth."

Hutch reluctantly released Starsky's hand. They were quiet for a few moments, then Hutch broke the pensive silence with, "How about another one?"

Starsky scanned the page. "Oh, this one's interesting. Short and sweet. That Aristotle guy wrote it. 'Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.'"

Another silence ensued, both of them contemplating its relevance to them while Starsky stared at the paper and Hutch gazed out a window. Eventually, Starsky spoke, his voice soft and posture unsettled, neither changing where they were looking.

"If that's possible, then what happens if one guy dies and the other doesn't? Does the dead guy leave the soul to the live guy, or does he take it? And if he takes it, where does that leave the live guy? Without a soul, is the live guy all empty like a zombie robot? What would be the point of living?"

Hutch faced Starsky, who was already looking at him. "Maybe it's love that merges the souls of two people. That soul _can't_ desert the guy left behind, can it? It's, well, the soul doesn't split because the love _itself _doesn't die when one guy dies, right? So the soul's still gonna be shared."

After a long moment, Starsky nodded his understanding. He said, almost tentatively, "I think this could be us, Hutch. Ya know, kinda diff'rent way of saying 'me and thee'?"

"I think you're on to something, partner."

"So when we kick, we kick off together, like -"

"Butch and Sundance," Hutch finished for him.

And Starsky's face lit up with the look he reserved for Hutch alone. Hutch reciprocated.

"Wanna go halfsies on that brownie Edith sent over?" Starsky asked with a twinkle in his bright eyes.

As if doing so would seal the deal.

The image in the mirror faded and Hutch regarded himself. Exhausted, bleary-eyed, pale, worried beyond words. Plagued by the thought that he'd seen that look for the last time over the roof of Starsky's car just before their world suffered a seismic shift.

_It's not his_—_**our**__ time yet. I have to see him, talk to him._

=S&H=

Dobey stood when Hutch entered the ICU corridor. "How'd it go with -"

"Not now, Cap," Hutch interrupted, heading for his other half's room.

"Did Whitelaw have -"

Hutch paused only long enough to raise a shushing hand. "I said, _not now_." He slid past his superior and entered Starsky's room.

He was still petrified of touching Starsky, afraid he'd snag something and pull it out, harming his partner. _I have to get over this irrational fear. I __**will**__ be careful.)_ He rubbed his hands up and down the sides of his jeans several times, a nervous habit he sometimes employed.

He dragged the lone chair next to the bed, eased his tired body onto the seat. He sighed, at a loss of what to do next. Ashamed, he realized he hadn't said a word to his best friend, since he'd been loaded into the ambulance, despite the fact that the nurse had told him he should talk to him, in case he could hear, even though he was in a coma.

Then the words were there, and his voice, the fear fast becoming a distant memory.

"You gotta wake up, babe. I'm thirsty, starved… hell, _greedy_ for that look. The one you have just for me. Without it, I feel like I'm wasting away. You haven't looked at me that way very often over the last year or so, not that I deserved it." He took a deep breath to further calm his jumpy nerves. "And it's sure as hell not time for the Butch-and-Sundance thing, Gordo."

It suddenly dawned on him why Starsky hadn't dropped to the pavement: his partner, his _brother_, had purposefully made himself the lone target, intending to take any and all bullets, to save Hutch. To die for him, so_ he_ could live.

With more courage and strength than he thought he had, Hutch sandwiched Starsky's chilly, pale hand between his. He leaned in until his mouth was at Starsky's ear. "Okay, Starsk," he whispered, his voice quaking with more love than he believed possible for one person to have for another, "listen up. You died for me. Now, dammit, _live_ for me _and_ thee."

the end  
February 2020

Many thanks to Suzan for the edit. This story is much better thanks to her.


	8. The Scorpion Is Also a Wedge

**The Scorpion Is Also a Wedge**

I don't know who I am any longer. My legal name is Kira Jessica Jansen, but my name at birth was different. It's been so long, I'm not sure I'd even recognize it. If I could remember, I'm not sure I'd want to go by it anyway. Regardless, things, meaning my life, will change. Maybe, hopefully, even me.

Dave, my former lover, had regained consciousness after suffering multiple gunshot wounds and surviving a cardiac arrest. I'd held off trying to visit him until I knew he was more awake than asleep. Word around Metro was he'd finally arrived at that point. It was time for my first step into my new life.

I stood in front of the main entrance to County Hospital, still undecided whether to go in. Minnie Kaplan decided for me.

"Well, well, if it ain't Sergeant Jansen," Minnie said with not-so-subtle mockery.

I wasn't surprised at the tone of the greeting. Because Minnie practically worshiped Hutch, and Dave even more so, and the three were good friends, she was likely to be aware of what had gone down between me and the partners. I don't blame Minnie for the animus toward me; I have it for myself as well.

Dave was fighting for his life and in so much pain because of me; what's worse, he's still a target. Hutch was hurting, too, just not from the cut I heard he'd suffered. And it was highly probable that they both would suffer more. James Marshall Gunther is one persistent, ruthless bastard.

"Hello, Minnie. How's David?"

Minnie pushed her black-rimmed glasses up her nose with her middle finger - I'm positive it was on purpose. After a short delay in answering, she said, "Hangin' on, Kira. Slowly getting better, though, but my boy is tough, ya know. Neither he nor Hutch go down easy."

I gave my colleague (I know calling her that is presumptuous) a shy smile. "From what I know of them, that's true. Well, I guess I should be going in now."

"Are you sure that's the right thing to do? I mean…" There was a warning in her voice that made my neck hair stand on end.

"I know what you mean. And yes. I want to see how two very important people to me are doing. I want to see if there's anything I can do." I would be doing what I should have done weeks ago - but hadn't had the courage. Until now.

"I'm pretty sure you're not on the visitors list. But if you're determined, take my advice and step lightly, Kira. Neither Hutch nor Dobey are in a mood to put up with any of your games."

I couldn't halt the blush that burned my cheeks. "Thanks for the heads up, Minnie. Nice talking to you."

"Yeah, sure, the pleasure's all yours. And you do or say _any_thing to upset my boys, you gonna answer to _me_." With that promise, Minnie swept by me, coming close enough to make me shuffle away to avoid contact.

I dismissed the contemptuous dust-off, walked into the hospital, headed for the bank of elevators. As I waited for one to open, I thought about how my life brought me to this catastrophe. It's time to reveal the secrets that have nearly destroyed David Starsky and Ken Hutchinson, and that are destroying the me that is Kira.

I am James Marshall Gunther's niece. He took me from my parents when I was three or four, telling me years later they had died in a plane crash. I am only now beginning to doubt the truth of that.

He told me when I was ten that he had chosen me and no other cousins to learn the skills needed to help him build, expand, and keep his empire. I suspect that isn't the truth. His M.O. is to ensure there are redundancies built in everything he does. He trusts, and even then only so far, only those he's molded by proxy early on in their lives. If I hadn't "worked out" as one of his Mata Haris, I'm sure there was another niece or maybe even an adoptee that also got the same education.

Nannies took care of me until I was old enough to be shipped off to boarding schools in Switzerland until college at UCLA. He changed my name so no one could tie me to him without a great deal of difficulty. Lessons in everything from math and languages to acting and the art of seduction. Finally, lessons in keeping secrets, covering one's tracks, spycraft. All of it was part of my indoctrination to my new identity as his mole, his puppet. On his command, I applied to the Bay City Police Academy, because BC was a growing part of his criminal realm. Maybe fiefdom is a more appropriate word to describe it. Anyway, my acceptance was guaranteed thanks to an instructor on his payroll.

I knew this gig wouldn't last forever, so I protected myself from the moment I walked into the police academy. I started with saving my generous "allowance" from my uncle, taking care to transfer the money to multiple numbered accounts in multiple banks in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands and investing the interest wisely. Thanks to my financial education, I am quite comfortable. I also began to collect evidence of his illegal activities. I wanted leverage if he ever decided I was a liability. He'd turned me into a scorpion - embodiment of evil and human sexuality - and given the life span of the longest lived species was only about twenty-five years, I knew my time was limited.

My "assignments" after graduation, which always came through that disgusting and oily attorney Jonathan Wells who stank of Turkish cigarettes and gag-inducing cologne, were at first simply passing on information. The irony that I was a cop who was a well-paid confidential informant didn't escape me. For another level of protection - really self-preservation - I insisted Wells must communicate with me only by public phones on a predetermined schedule. My contact with Uncle James was largely through letters delivered by his personal messenger service. I've kept all of those. We did have clandestine meetings annually in exotic and isolated places all over the world. I can't count the number of top-notch false passports I have, all thanks to him. But there's one he doesn't know about.

Some weeks ago, Wells had a new assignment for me. A "divide and conquer" scenario, he said. Two detectives in my precinct were getting too close to amputating some of the illegitimate tentacles of my uncle's vast empire and several attempts on their lives had been unsuccessful. Wells had convinced Uncle James to try a different tactic: I was to sow discontent between them. Uncle James had used his substantial influence through third parties to somehow manipulate Captain Dobey, a very savvy, smart, and incorruptible cop, into assigning me to an undercover mission with Starsky and Hutchinson. I was to pit them against each other until they broke, using any means necessary. The projected outcome was there would be a split and any further investigation into McClellan and Clayburn would die along with the partnership. I became a wedge. A cold, angled brick to match my heart.

It had been too easy finding the means. Both detectives were attracted to me and had come on strong. They even competed for me, like two modern-day cavemen.

I hadn't counted on actually falling in love with both of them and respecting them as cops.

As soon as the elevator door opened on the floor where Dave was, Bill Ellison, a patrolman who has a crush on me, stopped me by placing his hand on my shoulder.

"Hey, Kira," he said.

I said, "Hi, Bill," using my seductive yet innocent voice, before he could continue. "Any way I can see Dave? I know visitors are limited when someone's in step-down but we worked an undercover job together recently and became friends." I knew I almost had him when his Adam's apple bobbed from a hard swallow.

"Uh, you're not on the list, Kira. Really sorry."

"List? You mean there's a list of who can visit Dave?"

"Yeah. That's the way Hutch wants it."

I needed to see Dave, needed to see he was okay. So I pushed. "Please, Bill, if there's a window to his room, can I at least look through it? I promise I won't go in, or even knock." I paused, took a dramatic breath, then said, "It would mean so much to me." This time, I gave him the pouty, pleading look.

Bill was putty in my hands. "Okay, Kira, but just a short peek."

Even though I was pleased I'd get to see Dave, I strangely took no joy in exploiting Bill's infatuation with me. Was my transformation really underway?

Bill escorted me to the room, then went back to stand guard at the elevators. The window was fairly big, so I was afforded an excellent view of the room, even though I only let half of my body show at the window.

Both Dave and Hutch, who had been back from San Francisco for a couple of days, were there. I felt bile rise into my throat when I realized I was somewhat responsible –- my failure led to his shooting - for how pale and tired and weak Dave was. His eyes had that doped-up weirdness in them. And he had this goofy smile on his face. Just seeing that made the love I have for him grow. So sweet, exuberant, creative, funny, caring, intuitive, bright. The frog to my scorpion.

Then I realized his goofiness was really happiness and it was all for Hutch. He was concentrating solely on Hutch. Hutch was his world, the center of his universe.

Hutch was in a chair positioned right next to the bed, his back to the window. I could his profile, which was more animated than I'd ever seen. I'd also never before seen the happiness he was showing now. And I realized Dave was _his_ world, the center of _his_ universe.

And they were touching. Hutch, from what I could tell, had his left hand over Dave's left. In my time with them, I hadn't seen that at all. At least not the loving touch I was seeing now. I had only seen the touch of anger and warning.

No wonder I hadn't accomplished my assignment. It was an impossible mission, doomed to fail before it began. I had made them lose their footing for a little while, almost drowning them in the proverbial river. But they were each other's life preservers and now they were fully and steadfastly on firm ground. Not even an earthquake or the arrival of alien ships could shake them. Not even the mighty James M. Gunther.

Hutch must've said something funny because Dave laughed then immediately grimaced and started coughing weakly and painfully. Hutch's hand left Dave's to steady his right chest. Dave's hand soon covered Hutch's. Together.

I wanted to be a third hand on Dave's wounds. To help ease his suffering. To touch both of them again.

That laugh/cough had begun to resolve by the time Dave turned his head away from Hutch and looked straight at me. He blinked his eyes several times, no doubt because he thought he might be hallucinating. I smiled, showed my teeth.

His eyes turned dark, like they did when he was mad or upset. Like just before he punched his best friend in the gut. I wanted to see that different dark that told me he wanted to make love. Well, that was never going to happen again.

Hutch noticed, of course, and he turned to look. His face turned from a curious happy to a livid angry in less than a second. That look pierced my soul like a large-caliber bullet.

Hutch was up and out of his chair so fast that it toppled over, making the wimpy little nurse sitting in the corner start and paw at her throat like an anemic kitten. He tripped over a chair leg but didn't fall. I saw that Dave had reached out for him and said something my lip-reading could not discern.

It took Hutch only a few long strides to leave the room and invade my personal space and tower over me. I was almost speechless, my defenses and training on the verge of melting when I smelled him. God, I love his quiet intensity, compassion, gentleness, intelligence, reserve, caution. The turtle to my scorpion.

No wonder I love them both. Together they gave me everything I needed, wanted, and desired.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Hutch, pink-faced, said through clenched teeth, his fury making me tremble slightly. Then he was yelling at Ellison. "What the hell is your problem, Bill? Does the visitors list mean nothing to you? Or can't you read?"

I didn't look back at Bill, though I could imagine the milquetoast cowering and trying to appear invisible.

"Sorry, Hutch, won't happen again."

Before Hutch could yell at him again, I said, "It's not his fault. I told him all I wanted was to _see_ Dave, that I wouldn't actually go in the room." I paused for effect. "I only wanted to check on him personally. You know you can't trust the grapevine at work."

Hutch's face sailed right past red to crimson. His lips thinned until they disappeared. After a few furious breaths, he said, "That doesn't excuse you or Ellison, Kira. And you certainly don't care about _him_," he said with a twitch of his head toward Dave. "If you did, you would've stopped responding to my come-ons."

"That's not true! I love you both!" I wanted to kick myself for sounding so pathetic and needy and desperate. I wanted to say more, wanted to say how it was well known they'd competed for and dated the same women before, but my new, struggling, infant self managed to keep that unspoken.

Hutch laughed derisively. "I don't believe you. Now get the hell outta here. We never want to see you again. _Ever_. And if you come around here again, or anywhere near either one of us after he's discharged, I'll take out a restraining order against you."

Hutch turned his head suddenly to look at Dave. He must've seen something out of the corner of his eye. I looked, too.

Dave slowly blinked, tilted his head, raised his eyebrows a notch. I knew it was some sort of communication but I had no idea what it meant.

Hutch did, though. His eyes widened and he had this questioning, doubting, almost exasperated expression. Dave responded with the slightest of nods.

Hutch practically spit fire when he turned back to me and said, "He wants to see you." He paused, during which I began to feel threatened - and very stupid for coming. "Against my better judgment."

He escorted me to the door without putting a hand on me - very unlike Hutch, but I understood why.

We stopped at the door. As he placed a hand on the knob, he murmured, "No funny business, or I'll drop-kick you off this planet." He opened it and I stepped through.

The mousy nurse was back in her corner, waiting to eat her cheese, no doubt. Hutch now walked a little ahead of me. So protective of his partner. Friend. More than a brother. I was so jealous of them both. We stopped about halfway to the bed.

Dave waved me closer. "His throat is still bothering him, so he can't talk very loud, or very much," Hutch explained. He stopped me a few feet from the bed.

I opened my mouth but any words I might have said were cut off by Dave's palm-out hand.

Dave, his expression bland, unreadable, cleared his throat. "You played us, Kira, but you won't fool us again," he said in an unemotional, raspy voice. "Don't know what your endgame was" - he paused to take a breath - "but me and Hutch won."

Without any indication I could see, Hutch scrambled to his bedside and offered him some water. Dave took a swallow from the straw then nodded his thanks and gave Hutch a grateful smile.

"Hutch an' me never want to see you again. Ever." No way could I not notice the low growl that had appeared in his voice.

Hutch turned to face me fully on, his body between me and Dave. "You heard the man." At least he sounded more civil.

So I left without saying another word, without one last look at the two men I love, not even in my peripheral vision. Somehow, I held off the tears until I got in my car, which surprised me that I could even cry, given my early training.

It's said a leopard can't change his spots, nor can a scorpion change her character. The leopard's spots are physical, but character isn't. It _can_ be changed. I have to believe that. I have to change or live despising myself, and the latter is not an option.

This is the last thing I write as Kira Jessica Jansen, except for signing over ownership of my car to Dave, who's sure to sell it and donate the money to one of his causes. I've sold the house (it was never a home) and Dave and Hutch will receive the proceeds from my attorney after closing. They won't keep that money, either. Their integrity is another part of them I love.

Regardless, too little, too late.

I'd like to hang on to this one-entry diary to read when I need motivation to keep from backsliding, but it's too dangerous to keep so I'll burn it in the flames of the fireplace before I leave Bay City and the two most amazing men I've ever known or ever will know.

_**Epilogue**_

Harold Dobey was now spending the afternoons at Metro rather than County General, where he continued to do business in the mornings. He hated to leave the hospital because his anxiety level ramped up every time. Starsky was in guarded condition and could wind up in the operating room yet again or suffer some other setback at any moment. And ideally, someone should be there for Hutch if his partner took a turn for the worse. However, he couldn't afford to get any further behind in his regular duties, and with the additional workload on developing the Gunther case, he had to spend time where those files could be protected.

"Come in," he half-growled at the knock on his door that disturbed his concentration.

It opened to reveal the mail clerk, whose name escaped Dobey at the moment, pushing a wire cart loaded with two banker's boxes into his office.

"Captain, these came this morning addressed to you and Detectives Hutchinson and Starsky. Because they don't have return addresses, I had the bomb squad clear 'em and forensics check for prints. All clean. Where can I put them?"

Pointing with his pencil to the chairs in front of his desk, he said, "There will do."

"Yes, sir." After accomplishing his task, the clerk wheeled the empty cart out of the office and closed the door.

Dobey finished the file he was reading then stood and headed for the box closest to him. In addition to the three names, this box had ONE written in one corner. He opened it carefully, despite the reassurance it had been cleared.

Taped to the inside of the box cover was a business-sized envelope with nothing written on the outside, though a trace amount of fingerprint dust still clung to it. Carefully he removed and opened it.

He snickered when he saw words and letters cut from magazines and newspapers taped to the plain white sheet, like a ransom note or a clue that a serial killer might give to taunt those chasing him. But this was neither.

_The materials contained in these two boxes should corroborate the evidence already collected and likely provide new evidence. Authenticity of all documents can be verified by Clarence X. Morrow, Esq., San Diego, CA. This should guarantee the conviction of James Marshall Gunther. This is my way of apologizing for coming between the frog and the turtle._

It finished with an image of a ghost.

A slow smile of triumph spread across the dark, plump face, followed by a hearty laugh. He yelled, "Martha, get me the DA on the phone _now_," loudly enough for his assistant in the next room to hear.

His detective's intuition, his ability to put bits of seemingly disparate information together to build a hunch, formed a possible hypothesis with some holes to fill and questions to be asked and answered.

On another extension, Dobby dialed the number for the Vice lead.

"Captain Henderson."

"Jason, Harold. Has Kira Jansen resigned?"

A beat of silence before, "Yeah, Harold. How the hell did you know?"

Dobby grinned at the likelihood that one hole had been filled in. "Just a feeling I had."

"I think she was more than a little upset with what happened to Starsky. I tried to talk her out of it, but her mind was made up."

"You're probably right. So, you free for lunch tomorrow?"

"If you're buyin', sure."

They made arrangements to meet at a Thai restaurant nearby. As he hung up, Dobey smiled at his own recovery taking a giant step forward.

the end  
August 2020

A/N: There are two versions (that I know of) of the tale of the scorpion who begs for a ride across a river. In one version it asks a frog; in another, a turtle. The scorpion, unable to go against its nature or character, stings its kind transportation.

Thanks to Suzan for the beta/edit.


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